


love like fools

by cowboykillers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Courtship, Cullrian Appreciation Week, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:06:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The little moments that make up the backbone of a relationship.</p><p>My contribution to Cullrian Appreciation Week 2016! Seven parts, all connected, that will stand together as one story. Mostly fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Courting

"It's an archaic practice, is all I'm saying."

Resting his elbows against scarred, weather-beaten stone, Dorian slides his gaze to Cullen, taking in the stern lines of his profile. Heat leeches into the battlements, chilling him from shoulder to elbow where he leans, but as much as he'd like to tuck up against something with a little more give and warmth, he's not quite that reckless just yet. Even with the strong line of the commander's jaw softened by a wry, barely-there smile, perhaps one he doesn't even mean to indulge in, it's still a bit too risky for Dorian to gamble on.

A pity. It's a brave new world that might be coming to a rather explosive end sooner rather than later, and there are some things that will still trip him up, even so.

In the courtyard below, a young woman with a plait down her back offers a bundle of flowers to her rigid-backed companion. Cullen doesn't say anything, and Dorian finds he's waiting, too, with bated breath, to see what happens --

He needn't have worried, apparently. The other woman accepts the flowers, hesitating a moment before striding away quickly, and at his side, Cullen huffs a soft laugh.

"Works, though," the commander murmurs, tapping gloved fingertips against the pommel of his sword.

After a moment's thought, Dorian concedes, "It does seem to have a little more meaning behind it here, I suppose. Courtship is a rather political affair in Tevinter, a statement that shocks and appalls, I'm sure."

"Obscenely," Cullen agrees, twisting slightly at the hip to aim that soft, half-smile in Dorian's direction. It does strange things to his stomach, and to his chest, for that matter, and he wishes that the handsome commander would -- not. 

On the same token, he knows if anyone else were privy to those private smiles, they would find their hemlines smoking apropos of apparently nothing, so he supposes he doesn't really want him to stop. Admitting as much is out of the question, of course.

Cullen gives his back to the courtyard below, gaze fond on Dorian's face, and he feels an answering warmth blooming.

Ugh, sentiment.

"Your southern practices are--" Cullen's eyebrows arch, and because he's expecting a jab and Dorian does hate to be entirely predictable, he flicks the fingers of one hand airily between them. "--quaint, and I suppose I can see the appeal, though you didn't hear that from me. I have a reputation to uphold."

Cullen's smile tugs at the scar on his lip, a move that used to drive Dorian to near distraction, as he rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm aware, Dorian."

Pushing off from the stone, his air as haughty as his expression, Dorian sidesteps the commander. "I don't think I appreciate your tone, amatus."

Cullen falls into step with him, expression thoughtful. "And somehow, I will endeavor to survive."

The door to Cullen's office swings open, a scout bobbing his head respectfully and holding it for them, and Dorian takes advantage of Cullen's momentary distraction to snake a hand between them and pinch his thigh. Cullen jumps a little, scowling, and swats at the rapidly retreating hand

"For your cheek," Dorian supplies, backing away with his fists tucked behind his back. "And be lucky it wasn't your _cheek_ I pinched." 

\---

Later, the candle on his desk burning low, Cullen steadfastly ignores Dorian's jiggling foot and general air of impatience. It's difficult, because the man is perched on the corner of his desk and doing his level best to be as distracting as possible, but Cullen has weathered worse and still gotten his work done.

Dorian wouldn't appreciate a comparison to any of the worse that springs to mind, but there's no discounting that a little prick here and there does his ego some good. It's (almost) always well meant, and regardless, they'd agreed from the beginning of their relationship that they would carry on much the same as they always had, at least to the public’s eye. There really isn't an option otherwise, given that the inquisition demands more and more of them each day, but they have managed to find something resembling balance between their professional and personal lives.

Well. Mostly.

With a sigh, Cullen wets his quill, gaze flicking to where Dorian has rolled a ball of wax between his fingers and is pinching it flat.

"I told you I had work," Cullen points out, angling the feather at Dorian. (The quill had been a gift from him, actually, extravagant and ridiculous and far too ostentatious for his tastes. He loves it.) "And that you'd only be bored. So you can stop huffing and sighing any time now."

With a narrow look, Dorian flicks the glob of wax at Cullen's head.

"Mature," he says dryly, attention pulled back to the parchment in front of him, though he can't quite hide his smile.

"Why did you," Dorian begins, and then stops, tucking his arms around himself in a move so casual that it immediately sets the hairs at the back of Cullen's neck standing straight up. "No, nevermind."

It's a rare instance that Dorian finds himself lost for words, and rarer still that he'll venture the beginning of a thought and not finish it. He's too careful by far, even with Cullen, and that's enough to have him slowly setting his quill down, brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

Dorian's mouth twists, and he glances away, throat working for a moment as he gathers his words. Cullen waits, because patience is a trait he's learned well in recent years, and watches Dorian lift his hands to his lap, settle them there.

He begins to play with one of his rings, and Cullen feels the first spark of true alarm.

"You never courted me," Dorian says finally, sounding as though the words themselves cost him to say. He looks at Cullen, finally, and there's a guard there that's been missing in recent months. It makes Cullen's stomach clench up tight to see it. "Not that I require courtship, and I certainly would have teased you mercilessly for it had you tried, but I was simply wondering -- why? Or rather, why not."

Cullen's stomach drops, and Dorian continues to work the ring around his thumb, flashing him a smile. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You don't have to answer. I'm not some starry-eyed maiden, heartbroken at the idea, I was simply curious."

It's late enough that no one will come bursting into his office unless there's an emergency, and to be frank, Cullen wouldn't care much if anyone bore witness to this; it's important, and loathe as he is to have his personal business become public knowledge, he is not ashamed. He knows Dorian is of the same mind as he on the matter, though, and it'd been by mutual, unspoken agreement that they kept their relationship quiet.

He wonders now if that was not a mistake.

Taking Dorian's hands between both of his, he smiles, squeezing lightly. "Dorian, I _did_ court you."

There is a long silence, and Dorian frowns. "You certainly did not. I would have noticed."

He can feel heat crawling up from under his collar, and spares a moment to hope against reason that it doesn't flush his face with color. "Well. I've been subtle."

"So subtle I wasn’t aware it was happening?" Dorian asks flatly, though the corners of his mouth are tipping up into a smile, perhaps despite himself.

Sighing, Cullen tugs on Dorian's hands, scooting his chair back enough to offer his lap as an alternative seat. Dorian hesitates a moment, but either the late hour or the conversation at hand convince him; he slides down into a comfortable seat, letting Cullen loop his arms around his waist and prop his chin up on his shoulder.

"I had assumed that you would find overt attentions... unwelcome," he says after a time, rubbing his thumb in absent swipes against Dorian's hip. Silence is his only answer, and so he struggles onward, voice quieting. "The conventional approach didn't seem to suit you. And I..." 

Dorian turns his head, bringing a hand up to rest over the top of Cullen's. "And you?"

"I wanted to be different," Cullen admits, embarrassed despite himself. "I confess I don't know much about Tevinter courtship rituals, but I assumed there was more pomp and circumstance involved than either of us could stomach. I thought, well, something a little more... simple. Would be best."

The more he says, the more inadequate it seems, and he wonders now what sort of message Dorian will take from it all. If he'll come to the conclusion that he doesn't mean as much to Cullen as he truly does, that Cullen doesn't consider him worth the effort of a proper courtship -- which isn't true, it's the furthest from being true that circumstances could be, but his tongue is clumsy and heavy in his mouth when he struggles to find the words necessary to convey that.

Maker be damned, the words are always failing him when he needs them most.

Dorian shifts in his lap, beginning to draw away, and Cullen's heart floods his throat. "Dorian--"

"Shh," Dorian instructs, turning to frame Cullen's face between his hands, rings warm against his cheeks. It isn't hurt or disappointment that Cullen sees in his face, as he expects, but something gentle and private that robs him of his breath. "You insufferable man. You wooed me with chess, didn't you? Chess, dead Venatori, book requisitions... honestly, Cullen, you're hopeless."

"I am," Cullen agrees, earnestly, as Dorian lowers his smiling mouth to Cullen's. The kiss is soft but lingering, and Cullen's wildly galloping heart calms with it. "This isn't news."

Rubbing his thumbs against scratchy, stubbly cheeks, Dorian laughs quietly.

"There was poetry," Cullen supplies after a moment, and Dorian groans, dropping their foreheads together. "In one of the books."

"It doesn't count if you don't recite it to me yourself, amatus."

Bumping noses, Cullen murmurs, "I could serenade you."

"I'm going to have to insist," Dorian agrees, and Cullen gathers him up in his arms, paperwork forgotten, as the candle winks out.


	2. On the Battlefield

For the third time, Reyson ends up flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him, and Dorian is almost concerned that he won't get back up again.

He digs the base of his staff into the ground, leaning heavily against it, and raises an eyebrow. "Is that the best you've got?"

Rising to his elbows, the apprentice mage exhales loudly, expression twisted halfway between embarrassment and resignation. "If I'm not using my magic, aye."

As anyone who has had the privilege of listening to him expound on the subject knows, Dorian considers the south to be host to many and various shortcomings and sins, but there are few that frustrate him as much as _the mage situation_ does. He finds it personally offensive on a degree of levels, and dangerously backward on many more. The entire foundation of the system was flawed from the outset, and anything born out of fear and ignorance could only do more harm that good; honestly, he's surprised that it took as long as it did for there to be an uprising and a war. That isn't an opinion that he broadcasts all that openly, even among the Inquisition's ranks, however.

They'd taken in the rebel mage army and he himself, an Altus mage from Tevinter, is one of Lavellan's most trusted friends and traveling companions, but there is still only so far one can ride on the goodwill and trust of others, especially with radical political leanings.

It's his lot in life to rail against the system no matter where he is, apparently.

His discontent with the system goes beyond the theoretical now, however, and has since he'd first come upon one of the training sessions for the fledgling army of mages. They were well-versed enough in magic, he supposed, though there was of course always room for improvement -- honestly, what passed for a magical education in the south was standard fare for anyone of talent and rank in the Imperium by age ten -- but he'd been shocked and appalled to realize that the vast majority of mages had little to no skill in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, most of them didn't seem to realize that they could use their staves to hit people and not just cast spells, which would have been hilarious if it hadn't been so _horrifying_.

He shouldn't have been surprised, considering their former circles were little better than prisons and it made perfect sense to keep their charges as downtrodden and defenseless as possible outside of their gifts. He was disappointed, however, in the entirety of the Inquisition for what he sees as a gross neglect, and has taken it upon himself to start training the mages in small groups in his spare time.

The results are mixed at best, but he's _working_ on it.

Reyson rises to his feet, wincing as he shuffles to where his staff landed some six feet away from him. He mutters something that Dorian doesn't quite catch, but before he pursues it, a familiar voice calls out his name and he is suitably distracted.

"Commander," Dorian greets, turning and taking in Cullen's amused expression. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

Cullen arches a brow, gaze sweeping across those assembled, and his smile slowly curves into a smirk.

(Dorian's stomach absolutely doesn't flip at the near-feline look on his lover's face. Honestly, though, the man shouldn't be able to bring that particular look out in mixed company.)

Making up his mind, Cullen begins to shrug out of his cloak, eyes still on Dorian. "I thought we might spar, Lord Pavus. Show your recruits a little something of what they can aspire to."

Face lighting up, Dorian straightens, grinning at the excited burst of chatter around them. "Why, Ser Rutherford, I can only assume you are referring to myself." He sweeps a hand from his toes to his chin, tone smug and self-satisfied. "Lofty aspiration, but if we shoot for the moon, we still land among the stars, yes?"

Cullen snorts, nimble fingers working his chestplate free, and simply says, "We'll see how light on your feet you are with all that ego burdening you."

\---

There's some sort of poetic irony in being laid flat on his back by the object of his affections and not getting anything out of it but a sore tailbone, but Dorian doesn't care to explore it. He's going to have bruises on his bruises by the time Cullen's done with him, and even the knowledge that he'll make Cullen cover every inch of aching skin with kisses is a fine sort of balm for later, it doesn't do much for him in the moment. Worse still, his students have split off into separate camps, cheering on their chosen champion, and he rather thinks Cullen's group is a little bigger than his.

There will be hell to pay for that later.

Above him, smile wide and helplessly boyish, Cullen offers a hand. The match is over and yes, he lost -- he's a skilled combatant in his own right, but this is Cullen, for the Maker's sake -- but he'd held his own longer than he expected to, especially given Cullen hadn't really gone easy on him. Dorian would have been able to tell if he had, for one, but he also knows his amatus well.

Cullen desperately hates to lose. He'll handle it with grace when he must, and Dorian has no doubt that he would have behaved himself admirably well in front of the young mages, but he would've sulked later. On a good day, it's one of his more endearing traits, and had been particularly useful early on in the development of their friendship, as he was particularly easy to goad into a rematch when it was his own pride on the line. 

On a bad day, it makes him want to set Cullen on fire, just a little. Well, all relationships are give and take, aren't they?

Clasping Cullen's hand, he allows himself to be hoisted up, the wicked gleam in his eyes all the warning Cullen gets before he fairly well plasters himself against the other man's chest. Without the usual bulk of his armor acting as barrier, they're pressed heart-to-heart in a moment, and he lingers just long enough to inspire a nervous round of giggling from their audience.

He draws back, wagging his eyebrows at Cullen, and is delighted to see the tips of his ears going red.

"And your final lesson for the day, my attentive students, is to never underestimate your own wiles." Stepping back, he gestures grandly at Cullen, laughing when he pulls a face and sputters. "The element of surprise can be the difference between life and death."

"Maker's breath," Cullen groans, settling his hands on his hips. "That's horrible advice. None of you ought to listen to him," he adds.

Reyson pops his thumbnail out of his mouth, grinning. "We try not to, Commander."

"That will come back to bite you later," Dorian says mildly, flicking his hands in a shooing motion. "Off with all of you. Same time, same place, in three days' time, unless our dear Inquisitor drags my lifeless body off into the swamps again."

They watch the mages pair off and shuffle away, not quite touching until Cullen leans in very slightly. "You're doing well with them."

Not so long ago, Cullen would have been just as apprehensive as any templar, former or no, at the prospect of teaching mages how to defend themselves without their magic. There are times it's difficult for Dorian to reconcile the man who stands beside him, with gentle hands and a sense of humor more self-deprecating than not, with the person he now knows Cullen was. Had he not heard the words from Cullen's own mouth, he might not have believed it still -- and at the time, he'd desperately wanted not to believe.

It had almost been too much for him to look past. Even knowing that the man Cullen had been was not the man he became, it had been... a lot to take in.

But then there are moments like these, moments that show him how far his heart's love has come, and he is proud to know him. The good that he puts out into the world will never take back the ill and the evil he once put into it, but that can be said for any of them, can't it? Cullen is proof that a man can change, a man can learn, a man can grow.

He's an inspiration, and sometimes, late at night, Dorian will whisper that into his skin, remind him that he is more than the nightmares that plague him, better than the mistakes he's made and the cruelty he's grown out of.

In the quiet of the practice yard, alone, Dorian slips his hand into Cullen's, winding their fingers together. "It's important that they learn. Who better to teach them?"

Bringing their joined hands to his mouth, Cullen presses a light kiss to his knuckles. "I know no better man, Dorian."

(Said just so, Dorian almost believes him. Isn't that a marvelous thing?)


	3. In the Bedroom

It's nights like these that remind him he isn't getting any younger.

He has aches upon his aches, a weariness in his bones that he can remember his grandfather swearing could predict the weather. At the time, he'd rolled his eyes and done his level best to escape the adults' attention -- there was always something more exciting to do than listen to his elders bemoan their declining bodies -- but the older _he_ gets, the more he understands.

Of course, he's abused his body in ways they hadn't. Grandfather's life had been hard labor that wore out his back, scarred up his hands and burdened his knees. Good work, honest work, and that's not to say that Cullen doesn't believe in the Order and what he set out to do, what he hoped to do before it all went so terribly wrong, it's just that he knows he lost himself along the way. The lyrium, too, has taken its toll in ways that they never warn you about, seeped into his bones and hollowed out a home there, taught his body that without it, there can only be pain. He accepts it as his due, and knows it is far better than the alternative -- will accept these bands around his temples and chest, the dragging aches, whatever the cost, to keep his leash out of the Chantry's vice grip.

It's worth it, but it isn't easy. Perhaps it shouldn't be, he reasons, pulling back the corners of the blankets and slipping into bed gingerly, slowly. At his side, Dorian stirs and reaches for him, curling a hand over Cullen's hip and squeezing lightly in greeting.

"Go to sleep," Cullen murmurs, shifting in an attempt to find a position to afford him some comfort.

Dorian's fingers inch underneath Cullen's sleep shirt, warm and heavy against his chilled skin. When he speaks, his words are slow-formed and rough, a testament to the fact that he'd almost been asleep -- if Cullen hadn't woken him. "Hurts?"

It always hurts. "No, I'm fine."

Silence is his only answer, and he thinks Dorian must have drifted off. He's glad for it; at least one of them ought to get a good night's sleep. He tries to will himself to relax, hoping that the steady pound of blood in his temples will abate at some point in the night, and rolls onto his stomach. It's not the ideal position to sleep in, but it's habit, and habit is difficult to break.

The blankets lift off his back, and he frowns, turning his face into his pillow.

"You're eventually going to learn you can't lie to me," Dorian scolds him lightly, warming his hands and settling them on the bunched, tense muscles of Cullen's back. "Silly man. Here I'd had such lofty plans of getting you into bed tonight and oiling you up for my fun."

He groans, breath leaving him in a long, quiet exhale. Lips barely moving, he mumbles, "So long as you keep that up, you can do whatever you wish with me when you're finished."

Dorian's laugh is soft, muted perhaps for his benefit, as he settles over the back of Cullen's thighs and sets to work. "Promises, promises, amatus."

\---

He'd love to say that he pays Dorian back tenfold after the massage, but he doesn't. The pain never truly goes away, but between Dorian's clever hands and the gentle application of heat and cold, the roar quiets enough for him to rest, at least for a few hours. He wakes with their shared bedding kicked down to the foot of the bed, Dorian's leg hooked over Cullen's and the sun barely cresting the hills in the distance. Dorian will murder him where he lays if he tries to wake him, he knows.

Cullen does it anyway, rolling over atop of him and blanketing him with his body.

"Cullen," Dorian grunts, hands coming up to grip his shoulders. He pushes at him, but not with enough force to actually _do_ much. "You're crushing me."

"I am," Cullen agrees, pressing a quick, smiling kiss against Dorian's throat at the rude mutter his response earns him. "Good morning."

"It is not _morning_." There is a pause, and Dorian shoves at his shoulders again, even as he tilts his head to expose more of his neck. "We've barely slept."

Cullen doesn't take advantage of Dorian's generous offer, however, instead capitulating to the show of force; he allows himself to be pushed away, ducking his head as he goes, mouth warm and wet against his collarbone.

Dorian's fingers find his hair, twisting in soft, unkempt curls, and Cullen grins as he sets teeth to skin.

"Sleep is overrated," Dorian breathes, arching up even as he guides Cullen's head further down. "What a marvelous idea this is."

Pausing, hands on Dorian's hips and his mouth hovering above his navel, Cullen says fondly, "Shut up, Dorian."

He does.


	4. Loss & Corruption

"If we are going to do this, we need to do it _now_."

Dorian's head snaps up, sweat beading across his brow, and he locks eyes with Lavellan. He knows that she'll be the one to do it, to cross the fade and find a way to save the boy -- she'll find a way to make this happen without further bloodshed, if there is such a way -- but for the burden to always fall on her is... unfair. He can see her squaring her shoulders, opening her mouth to claim responsibility, and he thinks _not this time_.

"I will do it," he says, drawing every eye in the room, from the templars to the mages. He grips his staff, spine straight and eyes hard, and insists, "I'm the best option we've got, and everyone here knows it."

"No ego on this one," Lavellan says faintly, and at her side, Solas locks eyes with him.

It surprises him that Cullen is the one to back him up, though he doesn't look him in the eye as he does it. All he says is, "If anyone can reach him, it will be Dorian. We waste _time_ ; either destroy the demon in the Fade, or we take his head from his shoulders now."

Tied down and thrashing despite it, eyes wild and inhuman, Reyson bares his teeth and screams, one long, guttural noise.

\---

The last time he was in the fade, he walked it physically. It is not an experience he ever cares to repeat, and if he's honest with himself, he's avoided even dream-walking since then. His magic still feels like home as much as it ever has, but there is a part of him that feels he has -- violated, perhaps -- certainly trespassed, like the Magisters of old, on sacred ground.

That it was not his choice matters little. Had he left a mark? Had any of them?

(Would they find Stroud here, wandering, fighting, lost? No, more likely he's dead. Dead, and now is not the _time_.)

He gathers his bearings, the blurred edges of the world shifting just outside of his periphery, and ventures deep into an unfamiliar hold.

\---

"Kinloch," he realizes, the word bitter and heavy in his mouth, and he hopes that he isn't going to bear witness to the Circle's end. Time is already of the essence, and he can't afford to get distracted chasing down memories, especially memories not his own. "Lovely. Reyson, my dear boy, you are my least favorite pupil."

He ascends another flight of stairs, stomach clenched tight like a fist, and reminds himself: this is the Fade. This is his stomping ground, and he has bent it to his will many, many times in the past. He will do so again, and he will save Reyson from the clutches of whatever demon has ensnared him.

He will do this, because he must.

\---

He finds Reyson huddled up against a wall, arms banded tight around his knees, and he looks younger than Dorian knows him to be. It may just be the fear on his face, or the way he flinches back from Dorian's presence, confusion and terror etched in his look in equal parts.

"You were never here," Reyson mumbles through heavy lips, shoulders pressed against stone. "What is this about?"

"You are in the Fade," Dorian says crisply, striding across the room and looking down at Reyson, not unkindly. "And a demon has possessed your waking form. Solas and Vivienne have managed to subdue it for now without hurting you, but you and I have a job to do."

Slow-dawning horror creeps over Reyson's face, and he brings his hands up, fingers curling over his cheeks. "I'm... am I an abomination?"

"Not yet," Dorian says darkly, and in the next breath there's a staff in his hands, heavy and solid and real. "And you won't be, if I have anything to say about it. Come on, Reyson."

\---

The demons that come after him are usually more of the desire variety than the rage -- and he's not in any rush to examine that particular truth in any great detail -- but that doesn't mean he's at a disadvantage, exactly, dealing with this one. Dorian learned from a young age to leash his anger and his temper just as he did his happiness and his passion, one of the few useful life lessons of being a Magister's son, and he is not one to be intimidated by any demon.

He'd dealt with worse on his first trip into the Fade, alone.

No, it's that he has to drag Reyson along with him, manage his fear and his horror and watch as it warps the Fade around them, that makes this difficult.

"Get ahold of yourself," he says, sharp and commanding, as Reyson's feet stutter beside him. "You are playing right into its hands. Can't you feel the Fade? Make it yours."

Maker knew the demon was draining Reyson's life, inch by inch, to sustain it, so he'd bloody well _better_ start fighting back.

\---

Tales are only heroic after the fact.

Sometimes, the grand battle is nothing more than pain and struggle, and even when you win, you still lose something.

Dorian knows all about that.

\---

He comes back to himself with a shudder, tasting copper and knowing fully well that it's only his imagination, and a pair of strong hands catch him before he slumps. Cullen is searching his face, eyes warm and worried, as the sounds of Reyson's quiet, hitched sobs stand in backdrop to the conversation.

"Are you all right?" Cullen asks, frowning when Dorian pushes past him to stumble over to Reyson. The magical bonds have been removed, and the boy is no longer struggling, but he is crying, palms pressed to his eyes, shoulders bowed in.

"You're all right now," Dorian says, reaching out to curl a finger around Reyson's shoulder, and the boy flinches away. Something hot balls up in Dorian's throat, but he speaks around it, voice rough. "You did well."

Reaching out with a trembling hand, Reyson curls a fist in Fiona's sleeve, dragging her close. She bends at the waist, ear to his mouth, and her eyes are large and sad when they meet Dorian's.

"I apologize," she murmurs, subtly positioning herself between them. "Reyson has been through a great deal. Please, give him time."

Dorian watches, stomach churning helplessly and angrily, as Fiona gathers her apprentice up in her arms and guides him away. In the quiet of the room around him, the assembled mages are clearing away the evidence of the spell, sharing significant looks rather than speaking.

Dorian remains standing, flexing his hands at his sides, and tries to ignore the pressure building in his chest.

"Dorian," Cullen murmurs, coming to stand beside him, but not touch. Always so considerate, his Commander. "You saved him. You understand that, don't you?"

Words press up against the backs of his teeth, and he tries to swallow them down, knows that Cullen deserves better than the roil in his gut. "Did I?"

"You did," is said with more conviction this time, and Cullen turns, fingers brushing Dorian's elbow.

He yanks away, and hates himself for the shutter that falls over Cullen's face.

"I wouldn't have needed to if your mages were educated properly," he spits, grief buried under the venom in his tone. "If they had any sort of defense outside of -- of fear and ignorance and the threat of a templar's _sword_ bearing down on their necks, perhaps they wouldn't be violated to begin with!"

Cullen sucks in a sharp breath, and lets his hand fall to his side. "You are upset," he says stiffly, and Dorian isn't certain if he wants to laugh or scream as Cullen continues, dogged and calm. "Am I helping or hurting, Dorian?"

The pause is too long before he answers, and that's answer enough.

Cullen nods shortly and steps away.

\---

Fiona joins him in the library later, her shoulders straight and eyes guarded, as she thanks him for his assistance.

He could play the game, and perhaps if it hadn't been quite so long a day and he wasn't feeling quite so scooped raw from his merry ventures in the Fade, he would. Instead, he simply asks, "How is he?"

She laces her hands in front of her stomach. "He has requested the Brand."

Dorian lurches forward, but before he can say anything, Fiona holds up her hand. "He is sleeping now. Dreamlessly. We will not allow him to make such a decision in the heat of the moment, but it is... within his right... to request."

"No," he says, hands curled atop his knees. "It's barbaric. Fucking -- why don't you _arm them_ , why do you -- this is --"

Something harsh comes into her face, and it quiets him, if only briefly.

"Do not lecture me on the condition of my people," she says, very softly. "I am grateful for your assistance, but that gratitude will not forgive disrespect. I will care for him and try to talk him down from this, as is my responsibility, and you will respect his decision, whatsoever it should be. It is not your place to do otherwise."

He bites the inside of his cheek so hard that he tastes blood.

\---

Cullen finds him in his office hours later, posture deceptively casual, a candle burning bright on the corner of his desk.

"Do you know, he wants to be made Tranquil." No greeting, no apology for earlier -- even the idea of it sticks in his throat, and he can't decide if one is truly due or not -- but at least Dorian's voice is steady, gaze calm. "Actually requested it."

Cullen sighs, crossing to the stand tucked up against the far wall of his office, and begins to remove his armor. "Yes. Vivienne and the Inquisitor addressed the mages, and it was discussed."

"It's not a solution," he says flatly, and then they both fall into silence, the only noise the practiced, quiet clink of armor as it is removed.

Down to a simple tunic and breeches, Cullen takes a place at his window, arms crossed loose over his chest. At this angle, neither of them is quite facing the other, and the setting sun casts a warm glow across Cullen's face.

"Have you ever had a demon in your mind, Dorian?" His tone is measured, and Dorian's hands tighten into fists. "Have you ever felt that -- that grisly echo of your thoughts? Been the passenger in your own mind? I'd have done anything to stop it."

Nausea swells, and Dorian wants to reach for Cullen, but he can tell by the set of his shoulders and the steady, even cadence of his voice that it would not be welcome. They've discussed this, of course -- Dorian knows what Cullen suffered, and what he became through that suffering, the choices he made. It's true that Dorian has never been marked in the way Cullen and now Reyson have, that he has always had the tools to defend himself and so will never fully understand that particular brand of horror.

He's horrors of his own, of course, but to argue his point right now feels... unworthy, in the face of Cullen's experience compared to his theory.

Cullen digs his shoulder into the window's frame, and if possible, he voice quiets even further. "They say that eventually, the lyrium will make you forget. There have been times I've wondered if that would not be a kindness. If the nightmares would stop, and I would know peace again."

"Cullen," he manages, and Cullen finally turns to him, smile tired.

"It would be no blessing. I came to realize that, eventually, coming out of one of my darker moments." He leans over the chair, hand tentative as it cups Dorian's cheek. He turns his face into it, closing his eyes. "But I had to make that choice for myself, Dorian."

Dorian's shoulders bow, and he says, desperately soft, "I have to believe there's a better way."

Cullen leans in, pressing chapped lips to a furrowed brow, but says nothing.

(He fears that his words, as always, would be inadequate. This, at least, he can do.)

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me at [antivanfishwife](http://antivanfishwife.tumblr.com) at tumblr!


End file.
